


chew on your feelings that are cornered

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Series: the art of being happy [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 391 spoilers, HQrarepairweek2020, M/M, Post Time Skip, Slice of Life, slid between the cracks of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: The jolt of the bus wakes Osamu from his recollection. One song transitions into the next. The fields of green outside the window seemingly continuous like waves from the subtle shifts in elevation. The black tiles of household rooftops glint under the sharp rays of the sun — as if drifting in a sea of green — sparse as the clouds above. Occasionally, the wisps of white are reflected in the pools of rice that were planted at a later date. The sky an endless blue. The horizon obstructed by slopes of mountains and curves of hills.The few cars on the road zip by. Osamu flips through his playlist and selects a different song.The crack in the window lets a little breeze circulate. Part of him wishes he did the drive himself. Rolling down the windows so the wind can tousle his hair and the sun can fall into his lap.Osamu leans back and closes his eyes.Miya Osamu pays a visit to Kita Shinsuke's rice farm.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke & Miya Osamu, Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu
Series: the art of being happy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839049
Comments: 51
Kudos: 318





	chew on your feelings that are cornered

**Author's Note:**

> warning: there is no plot. super self indulgent fic. unbeta'd. grasp on characterization — weak at best. read at your own risk. i also interchangeably use kita vs. kita-san to denote when osamu is really thinking about him. might be changed in the future because its annoying. also a handful of untranslated words that hopefully make sense in context.
> 
> this is in some ways an ode to [favorite characters](https://twitter.com/noyasanss/status/1254524955254915072?s=20) and their philosophies in life.
> 
> doesn't quite fit with the vibe of this fic but i've been listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyN8FHmGRLs) on repeat while writing.
> 
> [caaarot](https://twitter.com/caaarot_) has drawn a little [lovely](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EeFP2_xU8AEeFus?format=jpg&name=medium) kita for this piece!

Onigiri Miya will be taking a short two week break.  
We apologize for any inconvenience.

“No fair,” Atsumu whines, chin resting on the surface of the counter Osamu had just finished disinfecting, “I wanna go too.” Osamu half considers whacking Atsumu’s head with the wet rag in hand but ultimately decides against it. He’s not his brother after all. He drops it into the bag designated for washing.

“Too bad,” Osamu says, lips curled into an expression of smugness as he unfastens the apron around his waist. “Cry to your manager or coach about it.”

“It’s just a business trip!” Atsumu retorts.

Osamu throws a clean cloth that smacks Atsumu right in the face and then firmly places the disinfectant spray bottle in front of his brother as a response.

The jolt of the bus wakes Osamu from his recollection. One song transitions into the next. The fields of green outside the window seemingly continuous like waves from the subtle shifts in elevation. The black tiles of household rooftops glint under the sharp rays of the sun — as if drifting in a sea of green — sparse as the clouds above. Occasionally, the wisps of white are reflected in the pools of rice that were planted at a later date. The sky an endless blue. The horizon obstructed by slopes of mountains and curves of hills.

The few cars on the road zip by. Osamu flips through his playlist and selects a different song.

The crack in the window lets a little breeze circulate. Part of him wishes he did the drive himself. Rolling down the windows so the wind can tousle his hair and the sun can fall into his lap.

Osamu leans back and closes his eyes.

The afternoon sun still retains its oppressive heat. Osamu drags his suitcase towards the cluster of cars, not bothering to fish his phone out of his pockets. If there is one thing Osamu can count on Kita Shinsuke for ( there's a whole list ) it is that Kita-san will be there to pick him up. Just like the first bag of rice that is always delivered towards the end of August. Or how he ships off his product just in time before Osamu runs out. Or how, even back in high school, their club room is always spotless because Kita-san is there to tidy things up without fail.

Osamu raises his hand to wave at the familiar figure before retracting it to disguise his laugh as a cough.

Kita stands in front of his truck that has a single line of text to signify ownership. The problem isn’t the white truck that is identical to all the other small trucks on the road. It’s the fact that Kita-san is one broad brimmed hat short of looking like every textbook farmer. It's not that Osamu expected Kita to dress up for him or anything like that, rather the amusement stems from how seamlessly he blends into this lifestyle. The white towel tied around his neck like a makeshift scarf, the sleeves rolled up to not get in the way, the gloves that adorn both hands. It suits him.

( There’s a pun here Osamu can’t quite recall. If Atsumu was here he probably would have fired away. Or have been plain rude like always. )

When they finally are close enough to exchange greetings, Osamu finally pulls out his phone to: 1) commemorate his arrival 2) rub it in Atsumu’s face.

( The thought of Atsumu scowling in the locker room widens the grin on his face. )

“This is for you,” Osamu says as he gently places the watermelon into Kita’s hands. One day he’ll be able to present the ones with the honeyed and gold centers with netted skin. But for now this is all he can manage.

“Ah, you didn’t have to,” Kita remarks as he safely tucks it into a box to prevent it from rolling around during the drive. 

Osamu clears his throat. “It would be rude to come here empty handed. Besides, I can’t finish it myself.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a small smile on his lips that shows that he's pleased.

The drive is quiet. Spare for the minor exchanges of how the trip was. Maybe this was a mistake. Osamu toils with that thought as he stares out the window. Both sides are rolled down. The summer air barely cooled by the acceleration of the vehicle. It’s stifling.

Osamu removes his cap and runs his fingers through his hair.

When Aran had told him, with a half finished _onigiri_ seated in the palm of his hand, that Kita-san is now a rice farmer, Osamu had hurriedly requested the contact details for his old volleyball captain. What followed was a flurry of negotiations: email exchanges, phone calls, and one in person visit where Kita-san spent hours in his truck on a one day trip to allow Osamu to survey his products. There was a point in time, afterwards, that Osamu believed they were past simple business partners. Not quite as close as Aran and Kita-san are but almost there. From the way Kita signs off on his emails with the sentiment of wishing for good health, phone calls that would sometimes stray beyond their business, the holiday greetings that weren't just in the form of a single card, and the occasional texts. Maybe he read too deep into them.

Osamu rests his chin in the palm of his hand, counting the number of utility poles that dot the mountain side.

This ride is reminiscent of the distance of their high school days. A large wall, in which their captain can only be summarized by two things: cold logic and respect. Where admiration can only bubble beneath the surface and—

“That is my field over there,” Kita points out. The gloved hand coming into Osamu's view. He glances back out the window where one rice field is indiscernible from the next.

“It’s hard to see from here,” Kita chuckles. “It’s getting late. I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

Osamu glances back at Kita. Two hands on the wheel, as expected. It brings a smile to his lips.

If this visit was a bother, surely Kita-san would have said something about it already.

“You are up early,” Kita remarks. There’s a hint of surprise to his words.

Osamu muses over what sort of impression he’s left on Kita over the years and replies with: “it’s a little earlier than when I usually wake for my morning run.” But it’s not like he can say he’s used to the quietude of living alone. That the rustle of food preparation is enough to wake him. But here there are the birds on the wire chittering their morning greetings. The rooster with its sun salutations. And the sun that invades through the window to rouse him to a new day.

“It’s your vacation. You could sleep in,” Kita says. “I will wake you when breakfast is ready.”

So maybe Osamu has gotten it all wrong.

He makes the gesture of pushing his sleeves up despite wearing a t-shirt. “I’m good. Let me help,” he offers. “Cooking rice happens to be my specialty,” he adds as Kita let’s Osamu take over the rice washing while chuckling.

The quaint kitchen filled with two presences. The sloshing of water and the sizzling of fish fills in for the silence. The sky outside is a pastel palette intercepted by a drag of clouds.

Osamu is half tempted to take a step outside or take a seat on the veranda and take in a lungful of fresh air.

He notices Kita dump the instant _dashi_ into a pan with boiling water. And then swiftly peel potatoes with a speed and precision that Osamu’s mother would be in awe of.

“You don’t have to prepare such a fancy meal for me,” Osamu finds himself saying, guilted by the assortment of dishes Kita seems keen on preparing. He’s used to simple meals. An _onigiri_ or two at most for breakfast. Large breakfasts are an indulgence reserved for visits home.

Kita looks up from the chopping board. “It’s what I usually eat for breakfast.”

Flustered, Osamu places the rice into the cooker and offers to make the _tamagoyaki_.

“Grandmother always insisted on the importance of breakfast,” Kita explains as Osamu rolls the omelette and greases the pan. “Since you are here I’ll bring out her signature _tsukemono_ ,” he adds with a fond smile.

When they sit from across each other and express their gratitude for the meal in front of them — Osamu is reminded of why he went through such lengths to open up Onigiri Miya.

It all starts with the first bite of rice.

“Are you sure about this?” Kita asks as he places a pair of rubber boots on the ground beside where Osamu’s feet dangle. It looks new. Not even broken in. So this must be why Kita had asked about his shoe size a few weeks ago.

Osamu tries them on. “This is the whole purpose of coming here isn’t it? I’ve always had rice but never seen where it comes from,” he says. Sure, they had driven past rice field terraces on family trips when he was a little. But it’s not the same.

“Besides, I would feel too guilty if I stayed here for free,” Osamu shrugs.

“I don’t mind,” Kita says. He isn’t the type to lie or say such things just to be nice.

“You could take this as a break.”

It’s a simple statement. Paired with hands that knot the towel around Osamu’s neck so it mirrors the one hugging Kita.

Osamu can’t help but smile. “Maybe I’m here to help you take a break.”

Kita laughs. It is not unkind.

“Even if summer only consists of crop inspection, water management, pest and weed control, it’s not something you can pick up in a day or two.” There’s a glint of mirth in his eyes. “But I do appreciate a helping hand.”

The walk to the field is short. The morning air yet to be encroached upon by a heavy sun. Dew still clinging to the leaves of rice. The scent of mud strong in the air. Almost like wet grass to an untrained nose in Osamu’s opinion. There’s an earthy element to it.

Osamu takes a big breath in. Chest expanding before he exhales. The stress and worries from a concrete city seemingly lifted from his shoulders.

He wonders if later on, when the sun has risen to its peak, this scent will change to something more sun baked. Perhaps kin to straw. He makes a mental note of it as he follows Kita’s footsteps and wades into the field of his favorite food on earth.

The sun on his back. Would have scalded the nape of his neck if not for the towel that securely defends his skin from the scorching heat. Osamu has lost track of the amount of times he’s raised his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead and accidentally bumped the cap on his head. Hand weeding is a lot tougher than it looks. Half the time Osamu isn’t sure what he’s looking for or looking at. But Kita is always there to help him double check.

“It’s a bit tough,” Kita admitted while plucking out a weed. “But even if you don’t use herbicides or pesticides, as long as you maintain a deeper pool of water, the natural flora keeps most of the weeds at bay.”

Osamu nods along, trying to not accidentally squash any tadpoles underfoot.

Kita smiles. Uses a hand to gently coax the tadpoles to swim away through the rippling of water. “And these little ones grow up to get rid of pests.”

“And the depth of the water sustains their way of life?” Osamu comments, noting how the water level rises near his shin.

Kita nods.

Kita seems to notice Osamu’s condition and forces him to rest in the shade of the nearby tree. He procures a fan somehow and Osamu leans against the rough bark as he languidly moves air to cool down.

He watches as Kita returns back to work: surveying each centimeter of his field to ensure the quality of his crops. Osamu thinks the heat exhaustion has finally addled his brain because he swears he sees the gossamer wings of dragonflies dancing around Kita-san. It’s like a scene out of a fairy tale picture book where the refracted light on wings turn almost translucent — the sheen matching the shade of the protagonist’s hair.

Osamu closes his eyes.

What would Atsumu say if he saw him now?

Probably laugh at how Osamu’s break from work resulted in even more work. Followed by collapse. And then gone on in detail of what he would have done differently. The thought alone makes him clench his fists.

It was a whim to begin with.

After Kita tilled his field and planted his first seedlings, he had sent Osamu a photo. And Osamu had replied with a flurry of _woah!_ and _I want to see it in person!_

Kita-san’s _sure._ launched a series of noncommittal and committal comments that broke the monotony of Osamu’s days. Don’t get him wrong. Osamu enjoys his work and what he does. But he also doesn’t remember the last time he took a break ( unless you count supporting your brother by being a vendor to secure front row seats to his games ).

One thing led to another and now he’s here.

Why did Kita-san agree in the first place?

Osamu wakes up to the sound of the crunch of gravel beneath soles and something obstructing the sun. He opens his eyes to Kita standing in front of him with a bottle of water offered for Osamu to take.

It’s cold to the touch. Osamu doesn’t remember Kita bringing out a cooler.

“Did you walk all the way back to get this?” he asks after thanking Kita. It’s not a long walk but it still involves physical exertion and exposure to the sun.

“I needed a cool drink too,” is all Kita says as he unknots his towel and dries the beads of sweat on his forehead. He then looks at Osamu and reaches out with the back of his hand, pressing it against Osamu’s forehead.

Osamu freezes.

The back of Kita’s hand is warm from being in gloves all morning.

“I’m glad you don’t have a heatstroke,” Kita says when he removes his hand. “Don’t push yourself.” Are the final words he says before he leaves the half drunken bottle of water behind in the shade, heading back to complete his work.

Osamu sprawls on the tatami floors. He’ll probably have to take a second shower when night falls. It makes sense to have clothes plastered to skin and a sweat drenched back when toiling away in a field under the harsh supervision of the sun. But here, Osamu is only breathing and manages to generate the same level of stickiness as the hours spent weeding in the paddy.

Blasted summer heat.

The sun mocks him by intruding into his space and warming his head. Osamu shifts his arm to block out the light from his eyes.

There’s the muffled sound of the methodical thud of the knife meeting the cutting board. Must be the splitting of watermelon Kita-san mentioned this morning. Accompanied by a tinkle overhead.

Osamu lifts his arm away from his forehead.

Crimson goldfishes painted on a dome-shaped, blue tinged glass. It sparkles under the rays of light. For a split second Osamu can imagine being submerged in a pool like his younger days and the competitions with ‘Sumu to see who can hold their breath longer. Pattern of water and it's ripples dancing over head.

The paper attached flutters with the occasional breeze. Its chime breaking the spell.

Osamu can’t imagine Kita-san picking this out, just like the incense burner in the shape of a pig. Maybe his grandmother did. Who knows?

The clink of ice against glass brings Osamu out of his ruminations. Kita sets the platter of perfectly triangular watermelon slices on the _engawa_. Followed by two glasses of barley tea. The heat already forming condensation against the glass. The droplet becoming too large to ignore gravity, running down the side, staining the wooden edge a dark brown.

Osamu sits up.

Kita picks up the glass to hand it to Osamu.

A small rim is left behind where the barley tea once sat.

Osamu accepts the chilled drink with both hands, ignoring the way his fingertips accidentally brush against Kita’s inner wrist. They aren’t slender nor pale but for a moment Osamu wonders what it would look like with water trickling across that patch of skin.

He turns to the side and gulps the tea.

Kita tucks his legs under him as he takes a slice of watermelon.

Osamu looks back at where the ringlet of water has dried up due to the summer afternoon haze. Maybe, to Kita-san, his presence is as insignificant as a quickly evaporating water mark.

The thoughts are rapidly interrupted by an inelegant slap. Kita-san holds the slice of watermelon in one hand while trying to deal a death blow to a mosquito with the other. Osamu bursts out laughing.

Ah, this is so unlike Osamu’s impression of him.

“Hold on,” Osamu says as he places the glass back down and rises to grab a tissue for Kita. Then brings the pig shaped _kayariki_ closer before lighting the mosquito coil.

“Thank you,” Kita remarks as he heads towards the kitchen to dispose of the dirty tissue and wash his hands.

Osamu hums under his breath.

The flavor of watermelon bursts on his tongue as his teeth sink into its flesh. He selected a good one. The age old slap test is infallible. The sweetness balances out the toasty taste of barley tea.

This is what summers are about.

Osamu politely discards of the seeds into a tissue — the way Kita does it.  
( True summers are about spitting it as far as you can and gloating in the face of a frustrated ‘Sumu. But Osamu can make exceptions. )

“There’s _salonpas_ in the cabinet over there,” Kita points out after seeing Osamu exit the bathroom while massaging his own shoulder with his fist. “Second cabinet,” Kita instructs before heading into the bathroom to shower.

Osamu knows that tasks that seem menial are much tougher than they look. He shouldn’t feel ashamed for being sore. And no one should judge until they’ve spent a day in his shoes. But the embarrassment still lingers.

Osamu walks towards the cabinet and pulls out the drawer.

Somehow the assortment of medications ranging from bloated stomach to sore throat reminds him of the time Atsumu received Kita’s care package after being chastised for insisting on practicing despite oncoming cold symptoms. And how Osamu had made fun of Atsumu for crying while sneaking two of the pickled plums into his own mouth. He probably was never sick or stubborn enough to be on the receiving end of such kindness.

Osamu inspects the bottle of fish oil supplements in his hand.

Only now does he identify that his petty actions back then probably stemmed from a pinch of jealousy.

Osamu puts the bottle away and looks for the _salonpas_.

He can’t help but wonder if the pharmacy by the bus stop is as well stocked as Kita-san is. But even if Osamu offered to mail anything Kita needs, he would probably get turned down with a gentle _it’s fairly easy to order everything online nowadays_. Osamu peels the medicinal patch away from the sticker. How is he going to get this on his shoulder nicely?

He walks to the mirror and sits in front of it. Laying the salonpas on his thigh as he slips off his shirt. The area around the collar still wet from freshly showered hair. He ignores it and leans closer to his reflection, precariously stretching the adhesive with his fingers.

“Let me help.” The voice comes from behind him. All Osamu can see in the mirror is a pair of legs and a grey colored _jinbei_ that barely goes past the knees.

Soon, his eyes meet with Kita-san’s reflection. The color reminds him of roasted chestnuts he would tug on his father’s sleeves during festivals for. The hallmark of autumn.

Kita reaches for the _salonpas_ , taking it from Osamu’s fingers.

Osamu can’t tear his eyes from the mirror, even when Kita’s fingers brush against his as he pries the adhesive off of Osamu. Kita’s gaze is lowered, concentrated on making sure the corners are smoothed and no bubbles are formed. He’s freshly showered. A towel around the neck to absorb the dampness of hair. The towel remains loose and untied, grazing against Osamu’s back. Clumped lashes under this light seem even longer. Hair laden with droplets of water that lands on Osamu’s shoulder and slides down his back.

Osamu shivers.

“Thanks,” he barely manages to say.

The response is that of a serene smile and a small nod before he pads back to the bathroom. It is followed by the whirring of the blowdryer.

Osamu blinks at the him reflected in the mirror and wants to cry for entirely different reasons.

It’s frightening how easy humans adapt. The morning runs before he opens up shop now easily falls into the afternoon. It reminds Osamu of the days where he would race Atsumu home in high school. Where the horizon was less of the warm orange glow, steeped in blue that foretells diminishing light and the warm meal that awaits them back home.

Kita-san’s route consists of encircling the rice fields as if patrolling one last time before turning in for the day. It occasionally extends past the neighboring homes, in which Kita bows his head respectfully at anyone who greets him. The usual pleasantries exchanged. A comment about the status of the field. The pace that gets disrupted by the kindness of hearts.

“So you do have friends!” they exclaimed during Osamu and Kita’s first run.

“Maybe he’ll introduce us to a girlfriend next time,” one of the aunt chatters as the uncle thwacks Osamu on the back, sizing him up. And then smiling contently when Osamu barely flinches.

It seems as if all aunties and uncles in the world worry about the same things. Even his regulars their age seem to always press Osamu on marriage and the eventuality of children.

Osamu fights the urge to rub his back.

Kita smiles. Osamu can see why they stopped to say hi.

Today, the auntie carries a tub of pickled shallots.

“Sato-san’s pickled shallots are the best,” Kita says as Sato-san visibly blushes.

“Not as good as my _yuzu daikon,_ ” she replies, “you should come by during the winter.” She directs this at Osamu.

Osamu doesn’t dare meet Kita’s eyes. ( How nice would it be if they were expectant? ) But instead hastily comments: “only if Kita-san invites me.”

It’s a little cowardly. The jog home is quiet. On the steady and unhurried side as Kita carefully holds the tupperware of vinegar steeped shallots in his hands. But they aren’t close enough for Osamu to drop by for a weekend or to be known by name to Kita’s neighbors. There are lines he cannot cross.

Kita sharing his gifts and allowing Osamu to experience this slow life is more than enough.

( But a small bite always leads to more hunger — especially with someone who has a voracious appetite like Miya Osamu. )

On the days where they don’t tend to the rice paddy, Kita cleans his house. There’s always a level of cleanliness no matter the day. But these off days are reserved for the things missed out in daily maintenance.

Today, Osamu lends a hand in washing the windows. Polishing them until it’s almost reflective. Just like his store.

And then wipes down the surfaces to remove dust. Working up a sweat by doing household tasks.

It’s not until he’s soaking in hot water that he realizes how tired he is. Osamu draws his knees to his chest, submerging his half his face under water. Bubbles rise to the surface.

Even on days like this Kita-san is the perfect host. If it wasn’t for Osamu’s offer to help out, Kita would have done everything himself and probably wouldn’t have minded if Osamu just lazed around. Always drawing a bath at the perfect temperature. Allowing Osamu to go first. Scrubbing down the tub afterwards. Repetition, perseverance, and diligence. As expected of Kita Shinsuke.

Osamu splashes the water in his face and covers them with his hands. The light that illuminates the bathroom shines through the gaps of his fingers. The scent of cedar permeates through the haze of steam.

As expected, his admiration for Kita-san has only grown over the years.

Two houses down, the husband had accidentally sprained his back and Kita had gone there to help out for the afternoon. Inspecting crops for pests, weeding by hand, and checking water levels to ease the wife’s burdens. All her children have moved to the cities years ago, established roots, with no inclination of return.

 _Not that she wants them to_ , Kita noted after he had explained the situation to Osamu. _Their lives are their own_.

The smile that graced Kita’s lips incites a twinge of guilt in Osamu. His two week ‘vacation’ seems to impede upon Kita-san’s life. But before Osamu can apologize, Kita merely clasps Osamu's shoulder the way one would say _I’m glad you’re here_. Or maybe he’s reading too much into it. Either way Osamu ends up offering to prepare dinner and Kita thanks him for it.

While the _butajiru_ simmers on the stove, Osamu decides to help out with cleaning — refusing to be a guest that overstays his welcome or someone who tarnishes the Miya name. Hoping to reduce Kita’s load when he returns. But Kita’s abode is spotless, much like how the all the faucets in this house still shine.

Somehow he ends up in front of the _butsudan_. Some days, when Osamu wakes up early enough, he’ll find Kita kneeling in front of the ancestral shrine — head bowed in prayer. The first time he witnessed it, he had scurried back into his room, afraid he had intruded upon Kita’s space. The last few times he merely watched, as long as he dared, before heading to the kitchen to wash rice.

He must have forgotten to close the shrine from prying eyes with the arrival of the phone call.

Osamu kneels before it. ( But only after recalling the state of cleanliness of his hands. )

Even here there are traces of Kita-san’s diligence. The flowers look fresh as if they were changed this morning. The candle still burns. The stalk of incense winding its way down near the end. It’s probably inappropriate for him to do anything about it. Kita ancestors may mind. So instead Osamu merely touches his hands together and bows his head.

Kita-san is probably still a long way from a sprained back. But even so Osamu hopes they’ll continue to watch over his health.

“What did you pray for?”

Osamu jolts and looks towards the source of that voice.

Kita leans against the frame of the door, arms folded, but the look in his eyes is gentle. The setting sun casts a long shadow where the top of the head touches Osamu’s thigh. And the receding light dyes Kita’s hair a shade of gold as if a blessing and answer to Osamu's prayer.

Osamu could have said a lot of different things. But as his head scrambles and fails to find for something adequate to reply with. So he settles for: “that you don't end up with a sprained back.”

The corner of Kita’s lips twitch. Osamu escapes under the pretense of checking on the soup before Kita can notice the red that tinges his ears.

Kita Shinsuke is a man of rituals.

The day begins just shortly after the sun rises. Daily prayers conveyed at the _butsudan_ after washing his face and cleansing his hands. Preparation of breakfast. Followed by noting the forecast and jotting it down into a small book for water adjustment. Then a change of clothes for the survey of his crops.

Midday is marked by a lunch break back in his home. The afternoon is filled with small household tasks. Ending with one last patrol and run around his neighborhood.

By the time he comes home for a bath, the rice should be cooked. Most of the food should be ready.

Osamu’s not sure of what Kita does in the evenings when he isn’t there. Maybe read?

And then he retires early for the night.

It’s a simple but fulfilling lifestyle. One that Osamu easily falls into pace with. Maybe he should consider farming when he retires from his shop.

Nah. How is he going to manually weed when he’s old when he can barely do it now?

But this lifestyle, Osamu thinks as he exhales and looks up at the sky, isn’t so bad.

The night is accompanied by the sound of grasshoppers running their hind legs against their wings, intermingled with the croak of mate seeking frogs. The glass wind chime tinkles occasionally when stirred by the wind. And the wind carries the remaining traces of the grilled beef they just had.

Osamu’s stomach is full but nights like these are best paired with the taste of hops on the tongue. He retrieves the two bottles of beer he had bought when he first arrived.

Kita is still seated on the _engawa_ , legs dangling over the edge, one hand occupied by the fan that stirs his bangs. Osamu walks towards him excitedly. Choosing to tower over Kita from behind.

Kita looks up, eyes meeting Osamu’s. The fan in hand suspended in motion as Osamu dangles one of the cold bottles of beer in front of Kita.

Perhaps it is due to the summer heat that Kita had chosen to tie his _jinbei_ a bit more loosely. The collars are wider than their usual triangle, drawing Osamu’s eyes to the slope of the neck that dips into collar bones.

His mouth grows dry.

For a split second, Osamu wonders — if he allowed himself to have Atsumu rash sensibilities, rather than try to be nothing like his twin — would he have acted on impulse and kissed Kita? Bent down and allowed his fingers to tangle into that silver colored hair, tipping Kita’s chin with his other hand so he could fit their lips together. Would Kita have licked into Osamu’s mouth and forced him to his knees with a hand around Osamu’s neck?

Osamu shakes his head when Kita takes the bottle of beer from him with a soft _thanks_. He presses his against his cheek while fanning himself with the collar of his shirt. He sits down beside Kita but with enough of a distance he makes up for with a joke.

Kita takes a swig from the bottle. If Osamu weren’t watching, he would have missed the slight grimace.

“I’m guessing you’re more of a _sake_ type of man,” Osamu comments as Kita nods.

“I like it warm too.”

Which causes Osamu to burst into laughter.

“The breweries around here specialize in _junmaishu_ ,” Kita explains as he takes another sip. Osamu almost offers to drink it for him. “Just rice, water, and _koji_.”

“I’ll treat you some next time.”

Kita-san’s smile makes Osamu look forward to it. He brings the bottle to his lips to hide the swirl of emotions rising within him.

The mosquito coil burns in its holder. The scent of incense wafts from the _butsudan_. The taste of beer is a little bitter on his tongue. The nights here bring something different to the five senses — a welcomed contrast to his routine days.

With each successive shake of the sheets, droplets of water spray onto Osamu’s skin. He throws his head back and laughs. It reminds him of when he was little, trying to help his mother out with laundry. ‘Sumu and him each tasked with one corner to hold firm as their mother gently shakes out the wrinkles. The giggles that fill the afternoon and the occasional _oops_ when one of them loses strength and lets go. Mother never chastises them. And when the blankets dry, chases after and bundles them in the freshly sun baked warmth.

Except in this case he’s far too old to let go and allow that to go unexcused.

Osamu helps Kita move the wet sheets onto the clothesline after straightening out the wrinkles from the washing machine.

Osamu sits on the _engawa_ with a book in hand. Chilled barley tea within reach. It’s not as terrible today, the heat.

It isn’t until a blanket of shadow falls upon him due to an obscured sun that Osamu realizes why.

He looks up.

It’s cloudy. And darkening.

He hears the pad of footsteps that comes to a stop behind him. Osamu turns around and watches Kita inspect the condition overhead. Kita reads the forecast every morning to calculate the amount of water needed to maintain his field. But the heavens are temperamental and instruments can only be so accurate.

Osamu rises to his feet. “Let’s carry them in,” he says, giving Kita’s sleeve one tug before heading to the drying sheets.

The white cloths flutter in the wind. Whipping away their hands. Attempting to tangle them in the mess.

Osamu pulls hard and makes sure none of it touches the ground, rolling it into a semi folded ball. Darting inside and placing it somewhere clean before running back out to retrieve the next one.

By the time they grab the last two, the sky rumbles above. And the first few droplets race towards the earth. Osamu curls his body so that the newly washed blankets are shielded from the sudden rain.

He collapses inside, onto the tatami. Arms supporting his weight as he laughs. It’s been a while since he’s ran with that sort of desperation. Kita joins him.

“Ah,” Kita exhales, mirroring the way Osamu sits, where their feet are just shy of the kisses of rain. “This weather goes well with _nabe_.”

 _In the middle of summer?_ Osamu almost questions. But chooses to nod instead, curious about Kita-san’s favorite hot pot ingredients.

“I should get it prepared then,” Kita says, tucking his feet under him into a kneeling position before standing. Before Osamu can offer to help, Kita instructs: “finish your book.”

The _furin_ chimes wildly but the noise is drowned by the downpour. Osamu stares into the distance as his thumb slides to the page where he left off.

The clouds have descended to engulf mountain peaks. The way old paintings depict. Haze in the distance from how hard it rains. In a few hours the streetlights will turn on, reminding Osamu of the tranquility of the countryside.

Osamu leans back, back against the door frame, and submerges himself in the sounds of this far away place.

The tadpoles that dart past Osamu’s boots occasionally still causes him to jolt. But he’s slowly growing accustomed to the rice field’s biodiversity.

He wonders what it’ll look like in a few months. The stalks will be much taller, bowing under the weight of the grains. The entire field turns to gold for as far as the eye can see. How will it contrast against the setting sun? Or the clear blue sky streaked with the occasional wisps of clouds? What will the air smell like then compared to the damp, humidity now? Will it be more crisp? Dry like straw? Kin to grass when it is harvested?

Osamu takes in a deep breath.

There’s a flutter of wings behind him — feathers brushing against its body.

Osamu turns to see a white stork with tips of feathers as if imbued with ink. A calligrapher’s flourish with a brush, a personal signature, the wings are outlined in black. A sharp black bill, with eyes shadowed by a touch of red. Serene, almost haughty, as it surveys the paddy on its maroon colored legs.

Kita taps Osamu’s shoulder, beckoning Osamu to follow him with a finger against his lips.

Once again they are under that shade of the tree. “Let’s take a break,” Kita-san says with a wide smile as they observe the stork fill its stomach. A few more of its brethren join after a while.

They continue to stay there as the sun starts to recede and the moon grows a little brighter.

Osamu doesn’t learn until later, when he’s sending videos of the encounter to Atsumu and Kita is recounting it to his grandmother over the phone, that the storks’ visit is a sign of success. Something Kita looks forward to each year. Just like the croak of the frogs and the dance of the dragonflies.

“There’s a lot more variety of birds when winter comes,” Kita notes in response to Osamu’s inquiry.

Osamu wonders if it would be overstepping boundaries if he took it as an invitation. Probably.

“Send me pictures when they arrive,” he settles for instead.

Even Kita’s _sake_ set is simple. White porcelain decanter with four paired cups. Osamu half expected Kita to own those candle heaters but Kita is meticulous to his core: bathing the decanter in boiling hot water for no more than three minutes. Making sure to seal the opening with plastic wrap.

Steam rises from the bottle even after removal. Kita places it on a tray and Osamu follows him out to their usual place.

The aroma of _sake_ wafts as Kita pours it into the cups. Osamu receives his with both hands, noting the warmth that spreads from within his palms.

He takes a sip.

It’s a crisp flavor that spreads across his palate. A little on the dry side. But the scent of rice and _koji_ lingers on his tongue. He can see why Kita enjoys this.

There’s a content smile dancing on Kita’s lips as he depletes his cup.

The moon overhead is bright tonight despite the scatter of clouds. Osamu takes another sip and wonders if it’s liquid courage working its way into his veins that has him asking: “why did you agree to let me stay here for two weeks?” It’s something that has been on his mind for a while now. Refusing to bring it up because he cares too deeply about what the reply may be.

Kita takes a sip from his cup and pours another one for himself.

“I had just finished watching clips of Atsumu play when you messaged me,” he says. His tone gives nothing away. Osamu decides to wait and listen to the rest.

“I was in the middle of watching Aran’s game,” Kita continues, “and it brought me back to those high school days.”

Then chuckles and raises a hand to say: “I’m not comparing of course. Those courts are reserved for monsters. I just began to wonder what sort of lives my teammates were leading.”

“That’s all.”

The _sake_ that touches Osamu’s lips is no longer as hot as it once was. He wonders if Kita would be happier if he had brought Atsumu along. Or roped someone else. Probably.

“And then I tried to look for vendor stalls in the background, but it never appears.” It’s followed by laughter directed at himself. 

Osamu clenches his cup tighter.

“Here,” Kita says, holding the distiller to pour its remains into Osamu’s cup. “I’ll go heat up some more.”

“I’m glad you came,” Kita finished as he stands, collecting the tray to bring back to the kitchen. “It’s nice to share a drink with someone.”

The night descends into conversations about the members of their old club. Suna and the rest are doing well, Osamu recounts. Kita fills him in on Akagi and Oomimi. Occasionally bringing up the shenanigans of their high school days. And somehow it circles back to this moment.

Osamu is staring at the moon reflected on the surface of his _sake_. It’s full and impressive. Osamu says as much, which elicits a chuckle from Kita.

“You should come see it during the harvest moon,” Kita says. “It’s even brighter, hangs low, almost within reach.”

“The rice fields will reach to about here,” Kita places a hand on his thigh, near his hip. “The crops have changed color but yet to droop.”

Osamu wonders who else is privy to this smile of Kita’s ( and how lucky they are ).

Under the radiance of the moon, Kita’s hair is ashen with a silvery touch. Paired with a glint in his eyes as he describes animatedly about the harvest season. Osamu finds it more beautiful than the sky above.

 _If you’ll have me_ remains lodged in his throat.

This entire trip has been marked by a steep learning curve. But nothing seems to have surprised Osamu more than “flowers?!” during one of their morning inspection.

The chuckle from Kita-san is more than enough of an indication.

( Of course rice has flowers, Osamu berates himself later when he’s searching it up on his phone. The grains are seeds. Rice requires pollination to produce said seeds. But since it is pollinated by the wind and not by insects, the flower isn’t as decorative or beautiful as the ‘flowers’ he is used to. )

Osamu fights the heat creeping onto his cheeks as he leans closer. Taking off his gloves and tucking them into his pocket as he retrieves his phone for documentation.

They’re not very exciting little things. Soft green looking petals and white specs clinging to spindles that protrude from the center. Kind of like what Osamu would envision rice grains to look like if not for his childhood trips.

But it’s fragrant. Almost floral. A wave of soft, sweet straw like aroma.

It makes Osamu a little hungry even though they’ve just finished breakfast.

He turns around to make a remark only to catch Kita doing what Osamu had done just moments before. His eyes are closed as he leans in to take a whiff of the flowers.

Osamu raises his phone and captures the image.

Later, when he floods Atsumu’s LINE with pictures to show off his adventures, he neglects to include that particular photograph.

Kita takes a trip once a week to the nearby town for supplies. This time, Osamu accompanies him. He’s not foreign to manual labor. The hefting of bags of rice to supply his shop has strengthened him to a certain extent.

Kita has a list he reads off from. Osamu watches as Kita selects the vegetables. The red tomato that sits in the palm of his hand, observed for plumpness. The eggplant that is inspected for the sheen of its coat. Bell peppers loaded into the crate in its variety of colors. Peaches selected for its ripeness. _Shiso_ determined by how green the leaves are and the strength of its flavor as an indication of freshness.

Osamu loads them into the truck alongside Kita.

The drive back is filled with mundane things: tonight’s dinner menu, how Kita is going to prepare the eggplants, and maybe they should have gotten the apricots after all.

At some point Osamu looks out the window and exclaims: “that’s your rice field isn’t it!?”

Kita glances in the direction of Osamu’s finger that is close to pressing against the window and then looks back to the road ahead. _Mhmm_ , he sounds. A smile gracing his lips. His eyes dance with pride.

Osamu’s mouth grows dry.

The golden hour douses everything with a touch of ephemerality. The fields in the distance seem to resemble autumn postcards. The sky overhead inflicted by Midas’ touch. Kita-san’s hair and eyes are dyed by the twilight whims.

Something tightens in Osamu’s chest. And he is caught between wanting this movement to pass or have it suspended like this for eternity.

“When is your bus scheduled to leave?” Kita asks when they are preparing breakfast. A slice of braised lotus root is held between his chopsticks as he suspends it for Osamu to sample. It must be a habit. Just like the other day Osamu had presented _kinpira gobo_ in the same fashion, for a second thinking he was feeding Atsumu before he realized whom those pair of lips around his chopsticks belonged to.

Osamu leans forward to catch the lotus root between his teeth. The saltiness is perfect. Osamu licks his lips.

“Close to noon,” he answers, “I’ll check the details later.”

The feeling that arises within him can best be described as wistful. Time passes unexpectedly fast and he’s already close to the end of his trip.

Humans get spoiled easily, after all. He’s gotten used to eating proper and elaborate meals while seated across from Kita. Three meals a day. No longer just shoving in a badly made rice ball when there is a lull of customers in his shop or delaying it until much later in the night.

Even Kita’s daily routine has become his. Knowing what tasks to help with around the household and identifying one type of weed to pluck in the fields.

“Aaaaaah!” Osamu exclaims, channelling his best impression, and disguising his frustration: “Where has my vacation gone?”

Kita laughs into his fist. “You sounded like Atsumu for a second there.”

“He did say he wanted to come here,” Osamu replies. “But,” he adds seriously, gripping Kita’s shoulders, “in order to not let him slack off or take advantage of your kindness you should only allow him to visit on one condition: farm stay.”

Kita chuckles after a moment of playful pensiveness. “That might not be a bad idea.”

But then Osamu wouldn’t be privy to such expressions. He tamps down these feelings and plasters a smile to his face as he helps Kita carry the side dishes to the table.

The misshapen lump starts to take form in his hands. The rice still radiates warmth from being removed from the rice cooker not too long ago — dampened by the water Osamu had cooled his hands in. At the heart of it he can feel the pickled plum.

It’s nothing special.

 _Umeboshi onigiri_ is perhaps one of the more classic flavorings that he only makes on special orders, under the _ask the chef!_ inscription.

He sets two of them on a plate. They feel a bit small. Inadequate compared to the surface of the ceramic plate. If he was in his store maybe he could have added to the presentation.

He kneels across from Kita. The low dining table separating them as he places the plate of rice balls in front of Kita.

Kita-san puts his hands together, a half bow, and “thank you for the meal.”

Osamu wonders where this trepidation comes from. For someone hoping to expand his business and open up branches — why does it feel as if his heart is wedged in his throat?

But then Kita-san makes a face that reminds Osamu of why he opened Onigiri Miya in the first place. It’s one of bliss. It’s the kind of joy that only accompanies a full stomach and a full heart.

It’s happiness.

See, at its core, happiness isn’t some complicated or intangible thing. It’s in the little things. All you have to do is halt for a moment to recognize it.

Osamu doesn’t bother to fight the grin surfacing on his face.

“You should come visit Onigiri Miya when you have time or need a break,” Osamu says as Kita reaches for the next rice ball. There’s far more range he can offer there but more importantly: “I would like you to taste the _onigiri_ made from the first harvest of the year.”

Osamu wonders if the smile on Kita-san’s lips stems from the same place as his. That hazy feeling of content that bubbles beneath the breastbone — knowing that someone out there appreciates and enjoys the work you do.

“I’ll think about it.”

It’s not a promise but it’s the next best thing.

Kita places a small rectangular box into Osamu’s arms before he boards the bus.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Kita says, “but I thought you might get hungry on your trip home.”

Osamu thanks him, unable to hide his curiosity. And as soon as he’s taken a seat, he takes the lid off the box. The container is packed with _inari_ _sushi_ paired with three side dishes. The elation that rises within Osamu is almost overwhelming.

He looks out the window. Kita is waving goodbye with his cap.

Osamu hides his grin in the palm of his hand as he waves back with his unoccupied hand.

He stares out the window, _bento_ box remaining untouched, until the green fields are no longer in view.

From the outside, Onigiri Miya might look like a ghost procession with its harsh bright lights making shadows out of patrons. A few steps closer and the cacophony of enthusiastic chatter and clink of beer glasses will greet one’s ear. It’s the time of night where business suits perfumed by ethanol stumble in for a late snack. But this is not the typical sort of night. Miya Osamu had made sure to hang _reserved for a private party_ sign outside.

The bustle and constant orders has Osamu almost forgetting why he had gathered everyone for an impromptu high school reunion. ( Volleyball club only. Just because. )

The door slides open. Osamu is about to yell “sorry, we are reserved for the day” for the 26th time today because signs don’t stop anyone. He’s interrupted by an “excuse me.”

Osamu would recognize that head anywhere. The half bow as he enters the space. The diligence in sliding the door shut behind him so that the cold winter air doesn’t infiltrate this insulated space.

If it wasn’t for the counter and chairs between him and the new arrival. Or how fast _miso yaki onigiri_ he had just set on the pan burns — he probably would have greeted his old volleyball captain with the same enthusiastic cry of “Kita-saaaaaaaaaaan!” Smothering him in their collective embrace.

Kita’s face breaks into a laugh. One of those rare ones Osamu has only seen once or twice. Something that stems from deep in the soul.

And if it wasn’t for the merry atmosphere, Osamu might have pulled Atsumu aside and pointed out that this is what happiness looks like.

Later,

Much later,

When his old teammates have slowly ventured home, half drunk on nostalgia, only Kita sits by the counter. Osamu is wiping down the dishes for the day, prepping for tomorrow. Kita brings out a glass container.

“Sato-san’s _yuzu daikon_ ,” he explains.

Osamu is glad he had put the plate away otherwise he would have dropped it.

“You didn’t have to...”

“Sato-san insisted,” Kita says as he takes a pair of chopsticks from the holder. Picks up a piece of the pickled radish and holds it out.

The sentiment chokes Osamu.

He’ll even forgive Kita-san for giving him last minute clean up work.

He leans forward. Kita’s free hand hovers underneath to catch any mistakes. The tanginess of _yuzu_ paired with the natural sweetness of _daikon_ is kin to heaven on earth.

Something wells deep within Osamu.

“Thanks for coming all the way here,” Osamu finally says when his mouth is free.

“I wanted to see everyone,” Kita says. “Thank you for gathering them.”

The smile that follows is blinding. ( Or Osamu is just that weak. )

“Besides, I thought they would go well with your onigiri.”

Osamu has ruminated over it for months. Digested these emotions thoroughly when the first pictures of white swans and ducks swimming across the pond that once boasted rice arrived. Even almost told his brother about this realization. But rather than telling someone else, Osamu would rather directly convey them to the individual themselves.

He’s waited until the last day of Kita’s visit, unwilling to put a strain on his break. It’s selfish, maybe, but hopefully justified.

Today’s meal is simple: _yuzu daikon_ paired with salted _onigiri_ where the rice has been cooked with the water from boiled _shiso_ leaves. A lovely tip from Kita-san’s grandmother. It presents as rice with a beautiful tinge of lilac, paired with the vibrant yellow shreds of _yuzu_.

He takes extra care in the plating. And places it in front of Kita.

Kita thanks him for his meal.

Osamu waits until Kita has taken a bite of both the _onigiri_ and the _daikon_ to ask: “am I allowed to fall in love with you, Kita-san?”

There’s a small cough from Kita’s throat. Osamu places a cup of warm green tea for Kita to drink. He’s anticipated this much at least. Lips curling at the corners, unable to fight it any longer.

Kita doesn’t meet his eyes when he replies: “if that’s what you wish to do.” And returns to finishing his meal with the occasional intermission of green tea.

Ah, Kita-san really is so cool, but thats what he likes about Kita Shinsuke.

Osamu smiles at the permission he’s obtained. He doesn’t have to hold back any more.

Kita finishes and places the chopsticks perfectly on the plate, once again giving his gratitude for the meal.

This time he holds Osamu’s gaze. His expression is one of content.

Ah, as expected... Osamu's already fallen.

**Author's Note:**

> [art commission](https://twitter.com/shokurensei/status/1295343592416845825?s=20) to accompany this fic!
> 
> respect farmers. the bare basic research i derived my information from hails from [this site](https://kome-academy.com/en/kome_library/make.html) and this [site](https://visitkinosaki.com/things-to-do/stork-natural-rice/). and yes rice do have [flowers](https://www.essence-of-mineral-makeup.com/images/Rice-flower-spikelet.jpg). a [link](https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2011/03/13/environment/traditional-paddies-are-great-ecosystems/#.XqemVJMzZAY) on diverse rice ecosystems. kita's farm is set in [toyooka](https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2014/08/15/environment/when-storks-arrive-youre-growing-good-rice-hyogo-farmers-discover/#.XqlRJCV-WEc) (2 hour + drive to Osaka).
> 
> also tourism boost for hyogo prefecture! check out ueyama’s terraced slopes or ojiro village or kinosaki onsen! sake! cows! rice! support kita shinsuke!
> 
> here's a [quick sake guide](https://hyogo-sake.or.jp/en/about.html) and then some [specific brands](https://hyogo-sake.or.jp/en/introduction/kitahyogo.html) for the area around where i hypothetically made kita a rice farmer. ( especially tajime's chikusen is what i envision they would be drinking in that one scene. ) and [here](http://www.nada-ken.com/main/en/index_j/343.html) are [two](https://www.kikusui-sake.com/home/en/c/enjoy.html) more links on sake.
> 
> for more information on [butsudan](https://japanyo.com/butsudan/).
> 
> i would also like to shout out to [this wonderful thread](https://twitter.com/vitaaeris/status/1254696165561565185?s=20) and [this one](https://twitter.com/noyasanss/status/1254985094835494915?s=20).
> 
> proper punctuation this time to not disrespect our god kita shinsuke.
> 
> title comes from [rice](https://apoemaday.tumblr.com/post/156850971435/rice) by chun yang hee.  
> [another song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=daoMYJv8i0c) that fueled writing.
> 
> p.s. if u have any theories about the whereabouts of his grandmother pls @ me. i didn't write her in for fic purposes and now i have regrets™ **update:** read part 2 to find out more!  
> p.p.s. it's osamu's personal visit/trip disguised as a business trip. only kita sees through him.
> 
> please come yell at [me](https://twitter.com/shokurensei) about osakita.


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